During the past week, I have learned how to drive on Substack without fear, as I did one summer on the narrow paths of the island of Majorca while taking a literary retreat in Portocolom; the olive fields had stone walls so that I stood my ground and hoped the other driver was not intoxicated, and if such was the case, he would not brake in time, and we might crash head-on.
The locals advised me to honk the horn repeatedly, but I was fearless and loved the peace of the inland too much to bother people. The only incident I had along the summer was in Formentor with Marion, who was attacked by vicious jellyfish –after I insisted we should plunge into such crystalline waters– and I had to drive fast to the south of the island before she hated me forever and ever. The night was falling at the end of the run and the car lights did the rest, so there was no need to honk the horn. We arrived safe and sound at Portocolom. But Marion still hates me and doesn't say hello anymore. What can you do?
But I digress.
What I learned is to add my email list on Substack, to reissue my most personal podcast, and to stand my ground against Offensiphobia (according to Corlett, the belief that offensive speech ought to be censured in higher educational academic freedom, because some expressions are perceived as being racist, sexist, etc.) that it actually extends like wildfire to media, entertainment, and literary works.
Some of you may be familiar with my podcast "American Fiction" from this very February; a college professor is forced by his dean to take a sabbatical, because a snowball of the late generation Z, also known as Zoomers, from a privileged class, was deeply offended by the use of the N-word written on the blackboard, while discussing a short story written by Flannery O'Connor.
You see, I know a lot of people because when I was younger, I used to spend time handwriting with elaborate strokes long and passionate letters with my fountain pen. Perhaps to indulge my curiosity and expand my point of view, the people I know have a wide range of opinions, beliefs, and tastes. However, after the covid pandemic, people became more polarized and less tolerant of each other compared to before. Is the mental immune system compromised after the long lockdown? Some people I really have loved and admire now are the shells of what they were once when we used to have fun together and show complicity.
For years now, we have been surrounded by cancel culture, which has become a fever that doesn't seem to break. Maybe we are like those crazy Europeans who were killing each other in the infamous Wars of Religion of the 16th century. Time is a flat circle. When the enslaved Israelites wanted to leave Egypt, they had a leader called Moses, ready to summon the wrath of Yahweh with ten plagues each worse than the last to break the resolve of the god-like Pharaoh. Following Moses’s instructions, the chosen people marked with lamb blood their doorsteps to ensure that the destroying angel would pass over them. On that legendary first spring night of the full moon, the chosen people were not concerned at all with the bloodcurdling screams of the everyday Egyptians and their stubborn ruler when their firstborns died. The holiday is called Passover for a reason. It’s a frisson of schadenfreude.
I named "Don't You Dare to Think Out Loud!" for a specific reason. A fiction writer who doesn't take the risks is limited by fear, with his poetic wings and imaginative abilities clipped and the creativity of a copy machine. A fiction writer uses to write novels and as the very word implies, it is supposed to be a novelty. And here comes my question. What kind of novel could I possibly write from now on if I succumb to the fear of offending others? The very existence of me is in shambles. This is the life I have chosen. And I could tell a story about my struggles with the painful writer's block, long years of self-hatred, and endless procrastination. But not today.
I have always been empathetic towards my friends and acquaintances and their life's ups and downs, but I never write for them. One should write for the audience that one doesn’t know, for the anonymous reader, in order to not measure what is said and to avoid preaching to the choir, being biased, and falling into clichés and platitudes; note that I'm not suggesting falling in lunatic ravings, but instead express oneself with the boundless joy of an emotional athlete.
I loved Marion with all of my heart. She is still a very successful fashion designer and by the time we fooled around in Formentor, she was kinda neurotic due to lack of sleep, frequent intercontinental flights, and was burned out. I swear the warm waters were sheer vert celadon and the jellyfish did not dare to attack me. Perhaps it was my wild imagination, but I think the cold white wine we had with the grilled fish at that beach stall made me feel a certain way. Later, on the way to that paradisiacal cove, the branches of the pine trees were warped by the north wind probably since they sprouted, in the style of magical figures. Under the golden Mediterranean sunshine, I felt invulnerable to any harm like the warrior Achilles. But Marion was scared, and instead of taking the plunge, she was dog-paddling.
One should embrace the madness and hope for the best. And learning to fail, to fail even better, to be at your best game. Otherwise, the jellyfish will take you. But being quietly indoors while the destroying angel passes over your roof, do what you’re told, avoiding saying things that might get you in trouble, emasculated and under constant suspicion, compliant to this Orwellian Newspeak that makes the skin crawl even for respected academics, and accepting cancel culture war as the new normal, it's the coward’s way, the ultimate insanity and beyond any doubt the death of the author.